


The Art of Kissing

by BarelyFragile



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 07:56:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11596311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarelyFragile/pseuds/BarelyFragile
Summary: Harry's brain seems to a have a mind of its own. This becomes especially obvious to Harry when, without his permission, his brain decides that the best course of action during a tense and frankly odd situation is to kiss Draco Malfoy's wrist.The kissing, of course, doesn't stop there.





	The Art of Kissing

Harry could barely remember thinking when Malfoy and his family walked up to him immediately after the trial. How they had even managed to find him, Harry wasn’t sure. He’d slipped away after hearing the verdict, before anyone had had time to react, and made his way up to the Auror Department, into the temporary office that had been assigned to Hermione, Ron, and him. He’d quietly put up wards to prevent anyone save Ron and Hermione from entering, and to alert him of their presence so he could pull himself together. He, after all, didn’t want yet another run in with the press, or concerned members of the Ministry, or even comfort-seeking friends. He just wanted to be left alone for one bloody moment, but that hadn’t happened since immediately after the end.

Besides, the press had the entire Malfoy family to bother, and they were definitely a bit of a rarity. They’d been holed away in Azkaban since the end of the war, and, apparently, no one was desperate enough to want to make their way out there. Even with the dementors gone, the prison seemed hold ghosts. The press had decided to turn their attention towards him, and instead asked him his opinion about every little thing that they could come up with. Somewhere in the initial stages, Kingsley had demanded that he and the others get media trained so as to not give away vital information (or any information at all, really) about court proceedings. What a blessing that had been. Apparently, knowing how to speak in circles mattered when it came to politics, as did learning how to give answers that weren’t really answers. Harry was the best at it of the three of them, so it had fallen upon his shoulders to deal with the press most of the time. 

But Harry was tired, and the Malfoy family, the only ones to be acquitted of their war crimes thus far, could just as well deal with the flashing cameras and the shouted words that made his ears go numb. It was unlikely that the press would get a story this juicy for quite a while since this was the last trial. The Malfoys just hadn’t been deemed dangerous enough to go first, and personally knew a handful of people who were happy to let the family rot in prison.

So when Harry’s wards pinged to let him know that three people had arrived, Harry was immediately on guard. It was late enough that everyone should have gone home, or been trying to get their five minutes of fame from the reporters. It could have been Ron and Hermione, of course, but at least one of them would have walked through to come find him after recognizing the wards. Harry cast a few spells to detect malicious intent, but found none. Warily, he opened the door to find the three Malfoys staring at him with stiff backs and blank faces.

Narcissa Malfoy stood front and center, her eyes holding a touch of softness as well as anxiety. If Harry hadn’t known any better, he would have assumed that her mask was just not as good as the others’. In fact, she was better at using it than either her husband or son. After all, it took a special kind of skill to be able to lie to Voldemort. What Harry currently recognized in her expression was exactly what he was meant to see. It didn’t surprise him. Narcissa Malfoy, and to a lesser degree, the Malfoy men, had all worn varying expressions for the Wizengamot to see during their trial, and most had ended up with some degree of pity for them. Harry was certain that their willingness to look pitiable had eased their trial along more than their pride would have.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry began. He was surprised to see them, if only because no one else had figured out his hiding place quite yet. “What can I do for you?”

Harry didn’t want to do anything for them. 

Narcissa Malfoy held out her right hand in greeting, palm facing down, and Harry kissed it, suddenly feeling like he was caught in a formal dance that he knew nothing about, and knowing even the slightest misstep would lose him the respect of the present company. He wouldn’t have concerned himself, except that he knew that Malfoys held grudges, and would deliver once they climbed their way back into pleasant society, as Kingsley called it. He didn’t want Harry to step on any metaphorical toes.

“Mr. Potter,” she began, her voice fragile and lilting. “We have come to proffer you our gratitude for your actions and testimony this past week.”

“Please, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry tried to respond. He realized his problem the moment he began speaking – he didn’t know what to say. He continued on anyway, trying to keep his voice light and make it seem like being around the adult Mr. and Mrs. Malfoys didn’t make him feel like a child. “I remember your actions at the end of the war, and have grown to understand the motivations of you and your family since then. Helping you was the least I could have done.”

“Even so, Mr. Potter, your words were invaluable in keeping my husband out of prison.” Behind her, Lucius Malfoy, whom Harry finally laid his eyes on, nodded fastidiously while keeping his expression carefully blank. He was not one to grovel, it seemed, though it could hardly be said that Mrs. Malfoy was doing that either. 

Harry had the sinking feeling that meant that his life debt to her had not been repaid. Narcissa Malfoy held an easy confidence about her that assumed that she and her son would not have been sentenced to Azkaban, even without Harry’s witness. 

“Thank you, Mr. Potter, for your chivalry and kindness. It will not be forgotten,” she continued. 

“Of course, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry answered, hoping that was the end of that, and he could move on with his life, and finally be alone.

“I’m sure you remember my son, Draco, Mr. Potter,” Narcissa Malfoy began again. Harry wanted to groan out loud. Like he could forget Draco Malfoy. He’d carefully been avoiding looking over her left shoulder, something he’d hoped had gone unnoticed. Evidently, he was out of luck. “He was your class mate in school these past years.”

Harry met Malfoy’s gaze and nodded sheepishly. Malfoy, who seemed to have become even more still in the meantime, simply stared back. There might have been some sort of nod in return in his expression, but it was slight enough that Harry quickly convinced himself that he’d imagined it. There was a pause in breath before all three of the Malfoys moved as one to allow Malfoy to stand directly in front of Harry. Belatedly, Harry noticed Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy now stood side by side behind their son, Mrs. Malfoy occupying Lucius Malfoy’s previous place. 

Suddenly, Harry was accosted with images of sitting on a broomstick, pale arms wrapped gently around his waist as if avoiding touching him. The heat of the flames had licked at the bottom of his feet, and would have been at his back too if not for a solid chest that blocked their path. Harry had found himself afraid and exhilarated in the Room of Requirement as he’d rescued Malfoy, but all he could really remember were the quick and quiet breathes of the other boy at the side of his neck, and enough heat to feel like he was melting.

It was Harry who couldn’t breathe now.

Malfoy, though he stood a good two feet away from him, was too close, and far too much in focus. Harry couldn’t keep his thoughts from running wild for a moment, and memories filled his mind before all coming to a stop at the face of Voldemort. Harry sharply remembered his cruelty and Draco’s fear, and that was enough to banish all of it to the back of his mind.

Presently, Malfoy didn’t look much better, though he was more put together. Harry couldn’t get a read of any emotions from him, though he wasn’t really surprised. It had been the same at the trial proceedings. There was a sharpness to his face that hadn’t been present before, even though the git had always been sharp and pointy. He supposed that was the influence of prison. And Voldemort too, he reminded himself.

Draco Malfoy slowly reached out his hand and softly whispered a “thank you, Potter” to him. Had Harry not been holding his breath, he doubted he would have even heard the words. For once, his last name spoken by Malfoy seemed to hold no contempt at all. In fact, it didn’t sound like anything more than a name. 

Harry looked down at the hand that Malfoy had put forth and wondered why it felt so familiar all of a sudden. It was right at the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. The longer he stared at the pale, somehow manicured hand, trying to identify the situation, the more he noticed the inconspicuous trembles that seemed to shake through. Was Malfoy afraid, Harry wondered? He couldn’t know why, though the feeling that the moment was something big heightened. 

He reached out and grabbed the presented hand, perhaps a bit too roughly. He didn’t shake it, since this wasn’t a friendly meeting of any sort, and the movement seemed trivial for the situation. And thus, Harry found himself holding Malfoy’s hand. 

He figured he should say something, but his brain power seemed focused on trying to figure out the significance of the moment. It wasn’t like he was binding himself in eternal friendship to the bloke. 

“Any time, Malfoy,” he finally ground out, his voice as gentle as Malfoy’s had been. 

That seemed to be enough for Draco Malfoy, and he lightened his hold, ready to drop his hand and walk out of the Ministry. Except, Harry hadn’t let go of his hand quite yet, and Malfoy wasn’t gauche enough to forcefully pull away. They both stood there for a moment, Malfoy’s hand loose in Harry’s determined grip. 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. His expression didn’t change, and Harry knew he was once again making a fool of himself in front of the Malfoys. Some things didn’t change, regardless of whether there was a war going on or not, he supposed. He had to do something to salvage himself as best he could, and he looked over Malfoy’s shoulder to Mrs. Malfoy in hopes for assistance. She, at least, had aided him before. Unfortunately for him, she appeared almost amused by the situation, and nodded imperceptibly at him. 

Harry had no idea what that meant, nor any idea as to why he’d chosen today of all days to become socially awkward. 

Of course, he’d always been quick on his feet, and looking at Mrs. Malfoy had supplied him with an idea that he acted on before he could stop himself. Glancing down at Malfoy’s hand, he promptly turned it over so that the unusually pale palm was facing up as Harry’s own wrapped under it. He then kissed Malfoy’s wrist, just a delicate touch of dry, chapped lips to the soft skin above the vein in his hand lasting no more than the duration of an inhale, before dropping the hand like it was on fire. He took a couple of steps back for good measure, and felt humiliation settling down on his skin, like a robe specifically designed to make him uncomfortable and prevent breathing. He wanted to avoid looking at Malfoy, but he couldn’t. His gaze was narrowed and on guard, and maybe a little bit surprised? Harry couldn’t honestly tell. Too much in the room relied on subtle cues and he was starting to feel sick as the reality his action lay heavy on his shoulders. 

Behind Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy’s face had become even more blank, if that was possible, and Narcissa Malfoy looked like she was enjoying a pleasant day.

Harry had just kissed Draco’s wrist. What the actual fuck. 

“Well, Mr. Potter,” she spoke after watching him squirm for another few seconds. “We hope to see you around, sooner rather than later.” Both she and her husband turned around and walked towards the Auror Department exit. 

Malfoy himself hesitated for a split second, his gaze sharpening and narrowing further as he looked skeptically at Harry. There was something questioning about his countenance, but before Harry could say anything to further embarrass himself, Malfoy turned on his heel and walked out of the room, his robes flowing in the air behind him.

Once he was sure all three of the Malfoys were gone, Harry took a few more steps back and sagged against the desk behind him. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and felt momentarily better.

He then resolved to never face the Malfoys again, and to do his best to avoid it. No one could know this has transpired, or Harry was undoubtedly sure he’d be swallowed whole by the earth itself. That, or he’d teach himself a spell to make sure it happened, so he could evade any forthcoming debasement. 

It was just his luck, then, that the Evening Prophet had a close-up picture on the front page of the brush of his lips with Malfoy’s wrist, along with the title, “HARRY POTTER KISSES DEATH EATER DRACO MALFOY!” in bold letters.

**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone want to help me beta this? I'd be eternally grateful, and my writing could certainly use it.


End file.
